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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27506971">You're Not Alone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran'>tiger_moran</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lyric [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Referenced Ronald Adair, Referenced murder, Trials</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 03:33:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>729</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27506971</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteenth in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lyric [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You're Not Alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Astræa - You're Not Alone (original by Olive)</p><p>Take my thoughts with you<br/>And when you look behind<br/>You will surely see<br/>A face that you recognize</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">They are talking about him still, but he is not a part of it. They will not let him speak anyway; it must be left to his barrister to talk, to defend him, to speak of the total lack of witnesses; of how Moran was not anywhere near Park Lane when young Ronald Adair died; of how a couple of badly mangled bullets is conclusive proof of nothing; how due to <em>somebody's</em> incompetence it seems a very key piece of evidence – the rifle – has vanished without trace, and Moran doesn't care much anyway. He is shivering, burning up with fever, and far too miserable to give a damn what happens next. If they want to pin Ronnie's murder on him and put his neck through the noose and drop the floor from under him and send him into the dark while his earthly remains are tumbled into a shallow pit of dirt and quicklime beneath the flagstones of a prison passageway, so be it. The Professor is long gone and Moran has failed spectacularly in avenging his <em>murder</em> at the hands of that goddamned detective, so what does he care any more about what happens to him.</p><p class="western">Poor stupid foolish smitten Ronnie, lying out there somewhere (Moran does not know where) in his own grave, and maybe the worst of it is Moran cannot grieve for him, does not have even an inch of space within his damaged soul to mourn the loss of one so young, so naïve. It is grief for another which consumes him entirely, and makes him detach, almost entirely, from everything that is being said in the courtroom. His fate hangs in the balance now but they may as well be discussing someone else entirely.</p><p class="western">He pays no attention either to those who have come to the court for entertainment, to gawk at him, to gossip about him after – precisely the same kind of people who would love to be able to see him hang, had executions not long been put behind closed doors. Let them stare and titter, let them judge him. He wouldn't care much if they did come to jeer and cheer when the rope is put around his neck. Even Holmes does not trouble him any more, because of course he is there, with that bloody doctor too.</p><p class="western">He wonders dimly, distantly, why the expression on Holmes's face seems to bear traces of... regret? But he dismisses this thought a moment later. What does it matter, what does any of it matter?</p><p class="western">Except...</p><p class="western">Except...</p><p class="western">He doesn't know what it is that catches his attention then. Something in the public gallery, amidst the old ladies knitting as they listen to the proceedings, amongst those come to condemn him even before judgement is officially reached, acquaintances of Ronnie's perhaps, or perhaps not; perhaps they are simply those come to treat these proceedings as if they are a circus or a theatrical performance. Kitty is there, has been there throughout – good, sweet Kitty, who of course did not abandon him, who loves and accepts him still, but... it's something else that niggles at his mind. He turns his head and glances over again, sees nothing else that should have caught his eye, and yet...</p><p class="western">He can't quite place its cause still.</p><p class="western">And yet...</p><p class="western">Still he has that prickle, almost like an itch in the back of his mind, something he hasn't experienced for a long time and he was far more used to getting in India, when he hunted tigers and when he always seemed to be able to sense, somehow, when he was being watched by one of the creatures.</p><p class="western">His barrister, Lamb, says something else, makes some gesture which catches Moran's eye briefly, drawing his attention onto the man momentarily. Lamb is making his concluding remarks now, drawing these proceedings to an end, and Moran still does not care.</p><p class="western">It is when he looks back at the public gallery again that he sees it at last. A man, sitting at the back, dressed in good clothes but shabby ones, wearing glasses with smoked lenses. Very still, very serene, and even with those glasses of his Moran can tell, that this man is looking directly, intently, at him, and realisation hits him like a punch to the heart.</p><p class="western">“<em>James</em>,” he whispers, and everything goes black as he drops into a dead faint.</p>
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